windy days

The wind is tougher than the cold. The cold you can beat with layers and exertion. The wind you can't.  Beat.  Just fight . . . and survive, in little ways . . . you keep going, you don't cry.  The whoosh of a dump truck flying down the hill as you struggle up, and your momentum is sucked away just like you hit the brakes.  Then on the next hill there's a big truck going with you, and you feel the pick-up as it passes.  Your eyes scan the face of the land with new eyes - measuring the dips and turns - seeking the tucks where there will be sudden peace. 

You breathe ragged so long you don't notice anymore, and try not to curse halfway up a slow incline. You see, impassively, the cloud shadows on the mountains, the subtle fall colors sharpened by the wind, and smile to yourself, but don't really understand how you feel or where this fits. 

Then, finally, a right turn and it's quiet. The stretch is steep, but blessedly still. The white house on the climb with four cars outside. A girl in camo sweatpants and a bright yellow jacket walks with a tiny dog on a leash, into the yard, with movements and a scowl that scream impatience, maybe anger. The little dog shivers with excitement, oblivious to her mood. I am almost home, still breathing hard, wondering what made this girl's day so bad, and whether mine is good or bad.

The next two days the wind stays strong, the bike stays overnight at the shop, I stay at my parent's house, and accept rides from them and from my aunt, from Alex. We stand outside for two hours and don't make it inside to see Obama. Others wait five hours or more. It was good, even so, seeing the crowd, if not the man himself. In the end we sat on the floor of a student lounge and watched the speech on the TVs on the wall. He talked about "choosing our better history." And I hoped.